I want to hug the heroic IRC employees who saved dozens of people from drowning in Burma/Myanmar.
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The next four months are going to be a triathlon. I’ll almost certainly complain, but I (not-so-secretly) enjoy the challenge and work better the more pressure I’m under.
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I’m really, really awful at describing myself on paper (beyond my resume), but pretty good at doing so during phone and in-person interviews.
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Six months of winter is hard on the soul. Six months of cold wind is murder on the skin.
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This is such a limbo time for me.
I’m waiting to hear back on a grant, so the resettlement office director and I can hire a full-time refugee health coordinator and get the refugee health mediation program up and running. (If this happens, I’ll be abandoning the blog for a while, because I just won’t have time.)
I’m waiting to hear back from this government agency and that government agency.
I’m waiting to find out whether I’ll be off to Kabul, Bishkek, Dushanbe, Nias, Juba, LA, DC, or NY come June –or slithering back to my mother’s basement to wallow in bourgeois angst and inhale snackfoods.
I’m waiting to hear from friends abroad.
I’m waiting to see if my best friend has finally broken her eight-year back luck streak in the romance department.
I’m waiting for a bad haircut to grow out.
I’m waiting to see if CitiBank fails.
I’m waiting for the snow to melt and the green to return.
I’m waiting to buy Microsoft Office 2007 for my laptop and a replacement digital camera until I can afford them.
I’m waiting for a certain blogger to email me back and save me from daily pangs of embarrassment and self-recrimination for having attempted to show off my (really bad) Dari.
I’m waiting for a breakthrough, somewhere.
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Ok, back to putting together my outreach proposal for this Friday’s meeting at the resettlement office.
Transitionland 